Pulses of muted sound thread through the fabric of the void, a tapestry woven from sighs and whispers. In the corners of the mind's palace, echoes linger like ghosts, brittle and hazy in the starlight. There lies a path, yet unseen, marked only by the silent song of the wolf under moonlit skies. Do you see her?
Once, there was a melody that danced between heartbeats, thumping gently; a lullaby playing on the edge of reality. It strums on the strings of fate, creates ripples in the glassy surface of ever-rushing time. The notes, clear and fractured, wander as souls do, searching for kindred spirits, for the comfort of echoed dreams.
Wander further or lose yourself in the recall of forgotten summer evenings. The world spins with tales half-told, as the moon watches over the labyrinth where whispers dwell in hollow chambers, waiting to embrace the unwary traveler.
Slowly sink into the numbness of reality's embrace, where every sigh is a step further into the unknown. Sometimes, in the quiet, you can hear them: a chorus of shadows singing, whisper-echoes threading the needle through fabric worn thin by time's hand.